


Never Bring Your Mouth to a Gun Fight

by somebodys_buddy



Series: The Longest Street in America [1]
Category: South Park
Genre: Again it's south park..., Alternate Universe - High School, Bullying, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Child Abuse, Explicit Language, Fist Fight, I mean it's south park so..., Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, POV Kenny, Pining, Sleepovers, Slow Build, Stuart McCormick's A+ Parenting, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2018-11-04 16:55:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10995063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somebodys_buddy/pseuds/somebodys_buddy
Summary: Mom's on crack, Dad's abusive as hell, and no one's seen Kevin in three years. The only thing keeping Kenny from getting on the next bus out of South Park is his little sister Karen, and he would do anything to keep her safe.Absolutely anything.Eventual Kenny/Craig***This work is on Hiatus until further notice***





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ***This work is on Hiatus until further notice***
> 
> Please read the tags! This is a serious fic dealing with really heavy issues. The last thing I want is for someone to get triggered or offended because they read something they didn't mean to. Also, if I missed anything in the tags, please let me know. <3
> 
> Also, be warned that this story alternates between the past and the present. I'll do my best to make it as clear as I can.

One minute Kenny was dead asleep, the next minute his eyes were wide open, struggling to adjust to the dark. His brother hovered at the foot of his bed, silent as ever. For a brief moment, Kenny wondered if Kevin was drunk again. Then he saw the duffle bag.

“Keep Karen safe,” Kevin said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The wheels of Kenny’s mind turned slowly, too slowly to make sense of what Kevin had said. He tried to blink the sleep out of his eyes.

“I mean it,” Kevin whispered, his voice insistent. “If he lays a finger on her…”

Even in the dark, Kenny could see the bags under his older brother’s eyes, the furrow in his brow. Kenny managed a nod, which seemed to reassure Kevin.

Stuart McCormick had never touched Karen, or Kenny for that matter, so Kenny didn’t think much of his brother’s warning. After all, Kevin had always had a flare for the mellow dramatic. Exhibit A— one packed duffle.

Kenny watched as Kevin shifted the bag from one shoulder to the other. The orange glow of the streetlamp filtering in through the bedroom window did nothing to illuminate whatever thoughts were churning behind his dark eyes.

Kevin shouldn’t be leaving. It was wrong. Kenny already hated him for it.

But Kenny also knew Kevin had to leave.

Kevin shifted from one foot to the other before taking a step forward, his hand outstretched to ruffle Kenny’s hair. At fourteen, Kenny was too old for stupid shit like this, but he was also too tired to protest. He let Kevin brush the bangs from his eyes.

“I’m gonna miss your sorry ass,” Kevin murmured. And then he was gone, slipping out the window and into the night.

Kevin should never have left.

That’s what his mom had screamed from the kitchen table a week later when the search for her seventeen-year-old son had finally been called off. Despite Mrs. McCormick’s insistence to the contrary, Kevin had been deemed a deliberate run-away.

“Who the hell does he think he is?” she screamed at no one in particular. She swept her arm across the kitchen table, sending a stack of unpaid bills hurtling onto the stained linoleum. “That ungrateful piece of shit!”

Kenny couldn’t help but agree.

Up until he ran away, Kevin had been working at 7-eleven. Without his paycheck, the McCormicks had their electricity shut off that month. Kenny and Karen took sponge baths for weeks, using water they’d heated on the gas stove. Seeing Karen shiver on the couch, her wet hair wrapped in a towel, Kenny couldn’t help but think back on the last conversation he’d had with Kevin.

_Keep Karen safe._

He didn’t know whether to laugh or put his fist through a wall. How the hell was he supposed to keep Karen safe on his own? At the end of the day, Kevin was just another self-centered asshole, like everyone else in his family. He didn’t give a shit about Karen. If he had, he never would have left.

Those were the thoughts that burned in Kenny’s mind as he walked door to door after-school in the middle of December, trying to find a job. He offered to wash dishes, sweep floors, clean toilets, shovel snow, anything at all to make a quick buck, but no one wanted to hire a fourteen-year-old kid. At least, that’s what Kenny told himself. It hurt less than the alternative— no one in South Park wanted to hire a McCormick.

When he finally found work moving freight in the warehouse district, it paid less than five bucks an hour. Of course, Kenny didn’t find that out until after they had hired him. The foreman quoted some Youth Minimum Wage bullshit at him and told him he could take a hike if he didn’t like it.

As if Kenny had somewhere to hike to. 

Kevin had made eight dollars an hour. If Kenny wanted to bring home a paycheck to rival Kevin’s, he would have to work almost twice as many hours as Kevin had. It just wasn’t possible, not unless he dropped out. 

Without Kevin, the house seemed to fall apart, and it wasn’t just because they were down one paycheck. There was a certain cadance to the McCromick household; everyone had a role to play. Kenny was the funny child. The funny child got smiles and cuffs around the head. Karen was the sweet child. The sweet child got new clothes and presents at Christmas, when they could afford it. Kevin was the bad child. The bad child got disciplined; that was just the way things worked. As long as Kenny was around to make their mother laugh and Kevin was around for their dad to hit, their parents seemed to be able to keep their shit together, for the most part. It was as close to stable as they got.

Most of the time, Kevin was quiet. He didn’t talk back to his teachers; he didn’t cry when he got hit. Only when he was alone with Kenny did he ever give a hint that something was wrong. Kenny knew how it bothered his brother, the way his teachers always assumed the worst of him, the way his boss always took advantage of him because he knew how desperately Kevin needed the job, the way their father took shit out on him when he was drunk.

Stuart McCormick was drunk more often than not. Growing up, Kenny had heard his mother explain the situation to him a hundred times.

“Your father’s under a lot of pressure. Sometimes, he just needs to blow off steam.”

“A boy like your brother needs to get smacked around once in a while.  It’s good for him. Builds character.”

“Kevin has a piss poor attitude. He needs to learn to shut his goddamn mouth and show some respect.”

“Your brother deserves what’s coming to him.”

Kenny had always bought into his mother’s explanations. It wasn’t until he was the one on spitting blood on the kitchen floor, his father towering over him, that he finally understood— Kevin couldn’t stay.  He had to leave.

 

* * *

 

 

That had been three years ago.

Somethings had changed. The electricity hadn’t been shut off in over a year, and the missus didn’t drink any more. Now she did crack.

But Kenny had also accepted the fact that some things were never going to change, like his perpetually split lip and his multicolored ribs. No, Kenny knew he was going to be some variant of bloodied and bruised until the day he died.

He wrenched open the freezer and stuffed a bag of mushy, half-frozen peas under his shirt, grimacing as they touched his skin. They weren’t nearly cold enough to do much good; they had yet to refreeze from when he used them this afternoon. Same injury. Different guy.

The sudden flash of memory made him slam the freezer door hard, too hard for three am on a Monday morning. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey off the top of the fridge before turning off the kitchen light and heading into the bathroom he shared with… well, everyone.

Karen had a bad habit of looking for him in the middle of the night, what with her night terrors and shit, so he closed and locked the door behind him. The last thing he needed tonight was for his bloodied face to be added to her exhaustive supply of nightmare fuel.

He took a long swig of whiskey before pouring the makeshift antiseptic onto a wad of toilet paper, hissing through his teeth as he pressed it against the gash in his cheek.

_I’m gonna buy myself a whole fucking tub of Neosporin just as soon as I’ve saved up enough for Karen’s new gym shoes._

The cut wasn’t long, but it was deep. He’d never heard of a guy wearing a diamond wedding ring before.

_Fucking fairy._

Kenny mopped up the blood as best he could before slapping a band-aid on it. He knew from experience the wound would heal quicker if he let it air out, but he didn’t need Karen seeing him like this. Not that she hadn’t seen him like this before. Not that his split lip was going to magically heal before it was time to get up and get her ready for school.

If Kenny was honest with himself, he’d admit the band-aid was more for his own benefit than anyone else's. But Kenny was rarely honest with himself. Honesty was just one more thing on the list of stuff he couldn’t afford.


	2. Chapter 2

_Freshman Year. Three Years Ago._

Kenny heard the generic iPhone ringtone before anyone else. His eyes snapped to the vibrating cell.

“Stan, your phone,” Kenny said, his eyes fixed on the square of light buzzing against the pocket of his friend's blue duffle bag.

“What? Oh, yeah.” Stan, who had been watching Kenny and Cartman play Mortal Kombat, reluctantly pulled himself away from the TV screen. It took a bit of digging, but eventually he pulled his phone free and squinted at the screen.

“I don’t recognize the number,” he said after a moment.

Kenny was counting the number of rings in his head. Any moment now, the call would be disconnected.

“What’s the area code?” Kyle asked.

“It’s South Park,” Stan replied.

“Answer it,” Kenny snapped. “Now.”

Stan frowned at Kenny, but answered it.

“Hello?” he asked with a sigh.

Kenny watched as Stan made his way to the far corner of the basement, straining to hear what he said. His controller dangled from his hand.

“Aie! Welfare queen, play the goddamn game,” Cartman screeched from the other side of the couch. Kenny ignored him

“Who is this?” Stan asked, brow furrowed. Even from the opposite side of the room, Kenny could hear the muffled noises coming from the phone.

“If this is a prank call…” Stan growled.

Tossing his controller to Kyle, Kenny quickly made his way over to Stan. The closer he got, the better he could make out the high pitched sniffling coming from the other end of the line.

Kenny stood in front of Stan, looking for any sign of recognition, but Stan just gazed past him, obviously irritated. Kenny hopped from one foot to the other as he waited, the concrete beneath his bare feet freezing.

“Oh, Kenny?” Stan shot Kenny a questioning look as he spoke into the phone. “Yeah, he’s right here.”

He handed the phone to Kenny, his eyebrow quirked.

Kenny grabbed the phone and shoved it to his ear. “Karen?” he asked.

The line was all silence and static. Kenny’s stomach twisted like a pit full of vipers as he waited for the person on the other end to speak. He felt sick.

Then… “Kenny?”

“Karen,” he said again. He closed his eyes, relief washing over him.

“Come home now,” Karen said.

His relief turned cold. Karen sounded so small. So frightened. “Karen, are you…”

“Come. Home. Now.” she repeated, her voice shaking this time.

_Oh god oh god oh god…_

Kenny didn’t own a cellphone; none of the McCormicks did.  Whenever he spent the night over someone else’s house, he made sure to leave Karen with Stan’s number. As the only guy in the gang with a girlfriend, Stan was the only one who could be counted on to have his phone on him at all times.

Kenny had probably slept over Kyle’s house a dozens times this year, and Karen had never called him before.  Not once 

“Ke—nney,” she whispered, her voice breaking halfway through, “please.” Then a sharp click. The line was dead.

Numb, Kenny stared at the basement wall. After a few moments, Stan gently pried the phone away from him. “Kenny?”

Kenny blinked a few times before walking over to his pile of stuff. He refused to look at Stan as he began shoving shit back into his school backpack. His worn tennis shoes slipped easily onto his bare feet.

Kyle peeked over the couch at him. “Kenny, where are you going?”

“Aie, jewboy, the game!” Cartman barked.

“Karen called. I have to go home.” Kenny said, fighting to keep his voice steady. He didn’t want his friends’ pity, and he definitely didn’t want to answer any stupid questions. Not tonight. He just needed to get home.

Kenny shrugged on his orange parka and grabbed his bag. Then he placed himself directly between the TV and Cartman.

“I need a ride home,” he said, his face as flat as he could make it.

Cartman stared right past Kenny. “You walked yourself here. You can walk yourself home,” he spat as he beat up Kyle’s frozen fighter.

Kenny had walked to Kyle’s house, but only because Cartman had refused to give him a ride—

Cartman hated the idea of being seen in ‘the poor part of town’. That had been eight hours ago.

Stan punched Cartman in the arm, hard enough to make him drop his controller. “It’s fifteen fucking degrees out!” he said. 

“And it’s two in the fucking morning, so fuck off before I kick ya in the nuts.”

Stan fell back into the sofa with a huff, then gave Kenny a helpless shrug. Stan didn’t have a car; he’d bummed a ride with Cartman, like always.

Kenny echoed his shrug before pulling his backpack over his shoulders and heading for the basement stairs.

“Wait, just, wait would you?” Kyle sputtered. He glared at Cartman. “What the hell is wrong with you, fatass?”

“Watch your mouth, Kahl, or you can walk home too.”

“I live here!” Kyle yelled.

“It’s fine Kyle, I’m gonna walk home,” Kenny said. It would take him a good half hour to to get there, but he’d assumed that was what it would come to. Hopefully, Karen would be okay until then.

_Ke—nney, please…_

The sound of her desperate voice hit him harder than a punch to the gut. His face screwed up before he could stop it.

When he opened his eyes, Kyle was staring at him. The redhead looked so fucking sad it made Kenny want to puke. He turned away and started to climb the stairs.

“Kenny, wait.” Kyle called after him. “Kenny, wait one goddamn… Kenny!”

Kenny finally stopped, his hand already on the basement doorknob.

“I’ll drive you.”

* * *

 

There were so many good reason not to let Kyle drive him home. There were even a couple of great reasons. For one thing, Kyle still had his temps, meaning he needed a licensed adult in the front seat for him to legally drive. And for another thing, Kyle wasn’t allowed to drive his family’s Lexus anywhere— the only wheel he’d ever been behind was the one attached to the driving school’s beater.

There were a lot of great reasons not to let Kyle drive him home, but Kenny couldn’t make himself care about a single one of them.

Kenny thought about trying to talk Kyle out of it, he really did. It wouldn’t have been hard to do; the redhead was shaking so hard, Kenny had to help him get the key in the ignition. But every time he opened his mouth to say something, Karen’s quivering voice came rushing back to him.

He needed to get home now.

Kyle got him there in eight minutes.

He sort of remembered thanking Kyle as he jumped out of the barely parked SUV, but he couldn’t be sure. He definitively didn’t remember unlocking his front door, or entering Karen’s bedroom for that matter. All he knew was one minute he was in front of his piece of shit house, the next minute he was kneeling on his sister’s bed with Karen sobbing, curled up in his arms.


	3. Chapter 3

_Senior Year. Now._

“Karen, where’d you put your concealer?” Kenny called down the hall.

A sleepy, but fully dressed Karen dragged herself into their tiny, shared bathroom. She pointed to a basket on the top shelf of the medicine cabinet before snatching her ragged toothbrush out of the community cup. Kenny grabbed the tiny tube of makeup.

“Don’t use it all,” Karen mumbled around her toothbrush.

Kenny squeezed the last of the peachy liquid into his palm, giving Karen an apologetic look. “Don’t worry, I’ll buy you some more.”

Karen huffed. “Last time you did that, you bought the wrong shade. Just let me pick some up from the dollar store after school. 

Nodding, Kenny smeared the makeup onto his face, first on the purple bruises blooming under his eye, then around the ugly gash on his cheek, rubbing the pale cream until it covered most of the discoloration. As soon as most of the damage was covered, he turned towards the mirror to inspect his work.

Kenny groaned. The bruises were semi-hidden, but the fact that he was wearing makeup as plain as the gash on his face.

Karen turned towards her brother, her eyebrows drawn together in disapproval. “Here, let me just…” Karen licked her thumb and gently rubbed at Kenny’s concealer. Even when he stooped down, Karen had to stand on her tip-toes to reach Kenny’s cheek. “All you need is a little blending,” she said, her voice morning soft. She stared intently at Kenny’s face, her pink tongue poking out between her lips as she concentrated. A brush and compact appeared out of nowhere as she continued poking and prodding the tender skin beneath his eyes.

After what seemed like an eternity, Karen stepped back to admire her work. “I think that’ll do it,” she said, a big grin spreading across her face. Kenny clicked his tongue. He thought she looked all together too pleased with herself. Then he looked in the mirror.

Gone were the bruises and the chunky, orange streaks he had tried to cover them up with; in their place was pale, clean looking skin, free from all evidence of violence. If you looked close, you could tell Kenny was wearing makeup, but as long as you didn’t get too close it looked completely natural. 

Kenny reach into his back pocket and pulled out a handful of change for Karen, ruffling her hair as he handed her the cash. “You’re too young to be good at this stuff,” he said.

Karen rolled her eyes. “I’m thirteen.”

“Oh yeah?” Kenny said with a mocking shake of his head. “I wasn’t in high school until I started wearing makeup.”

Karen grabbed the cash from him, laughing as she bounded down the hall. “I’ll see you after school, Ken,” she called over her shoulder.

Kenny took a few more minutes to scrounge up some breakfast (a piece of bread) and shove his books in his backpack. Even so, he made it to the bus stop with time to spare. He dozed off at the bus stop, then again on the bus ride to South Park High, both times waking up to the sound of an annoyed bus driver blaring the horn and his classmates’ snickers.

The rest of the day wasn’t much better. Kenny drifted in and out of consciousness the same way he drifted between classes.

_This is exactly why I don’t work Sundays_ , he thought as he sat in the hallway, rubbing his eyes. His European history teacher had banished him to the hall after dozing off during his Charlemagne lecture for the third time in a row.

_But I didn’t really have a choice, now did I?_

Despite the fact that it was technically spring, Winter still clung desperately to Colorado. Snow covered the sidewalks and a persistent chill hung in the air. All that meant business was unseasonably slow, which meant money was unusually tight. If things didn’t pick up soon, Kenny figured he wouldn’t have enough to pay this month’s bills, let alone buy groceries. 

By the time Kenny had fully woken up, it was last period. His psychology class had relocated to the library in order to research topics for their big end-of-year psychology project. Kenny, who had no intention of finishing this project, let alone starting it, had transformed a quiet table at the back of the library into a fortress, barricading himself behind a wall of Freud and Jung texts. In his lap he cradled a well-loved May 1986 edition of _Penthouse._ If anyone asked, Kenny was exploring topics of human sexuality.

“Hey, Kenny.”

Kenny glanced up from his porno. In front of him was Millie Larsen, wearing her cheerleading uniform and popping a wad of Bubblicious.

Kenny shoved his magazine into the textbook also sitting on his lap. “What do you want, Millie?” he asked.

“Wow. What an awesome way to greet someone about to do you a huge favor,” Millie said, not even bothering to look at Kenny. She was completely engrossed in her beige buffed nails, glancing up every now and then to flick off non-existent flakes of nail polish.

Kenny was fine with being ignored. He angled himself away from Millie and reopened his magazine/textbook combo. “A favor? From you?” Kenny pretended to mull it over for a second. “Thanks, but no thanks. The skank brigade already gave me my complimentary blowjob for the week.”

“See, this is why no one talks to you anymore,” Millie said with a scowl, her strawberry blonde ponytail flipping in irritation behind her. “You’re just lucky I hate Clyde more than I hate you.”

Kenny couldn’t think of any specific reason why Millie Larsen currently hated Clyde. Last he’d heard, they were dating. Then again, Kenny made a point of avoiding this exact sort of cliché high school drama. If he had to guess, it probably had something to do with a party, some alcohol, and starting quarterback Clyde Donovan sticking his dick in the wrong girl.

Kenny gave Millie a wide smile. “You know what they say: an enemy of Clyde’s is a friend of mine.”

“As if I’d hang out with a drop-out like you,” Millie scoffed.

Kenny felt his face burn. He almost pointed out the fact he was in school _right_ _now,_ but he bit his tongue. Why should he care what Millie Larsen thought of him?

“I just came over here to tell you that Red told Annie, who told Bebe, who told Clyde that you’re the one who gave his sister the clap…”

Kenny bolted up in his seat, nearly knocking down his Freudian fortress. “That’s not true!”

“…and that you made her take the pill…”

“That…” Kenny said with a murderous glare, “is definitely not true…”

“…and that you sold the entire JV squad condoms,” she finished

“Alright, where the hell is Red getting her info, because I didn’t make a single fucking cent...”

Millie rolled her eyes. “Don’t know, don’t care. Long story short, Clyde and his gang are hunting for your sorry ass as we speak.” She popped her gum, looking for all the world bored. “Word is they want blood.”

“Is that all?” Kenny asked sarcastically.

“Also, sweetheart, that cover-up isn’t your shade,” Millie said, lips pursed. “That’s all.” And just like that, she strutted out of the library, pony tail flipping behind her.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Kenny exhaled stream of profanity. He needed to get the fuck out of here. Quickly, he shoved his crap into his bag, then headed for the exit.

“Excuse me, mister, but where do you think you’re going?”

Kenny looked up to find a wrinkly wisp of a woman blocking his path. Her beady eyes glared down at him from over the tops of her wire-rimmed bifocals.

“I’m using the bathroom,” Kenny said, figuring even a half-assed lie was worth a shot.

“The bell rings in five minutes,” the librarian sniffed, her wrinkles bunching around her glasses. “You can wait.”

Kenny glared at the hag, but didn’t bother arguing. Instead, he slumped into the nearest chair and scowled at the clock, counting the seconds as they ticked by.

 

* * *

 

_Three. Two. One._

Before the bell had even finished ringing, Kenny was on his feet and out the door. Any other day he would be heading towards his locker to grab textbooks, but not today. Today, he had more pressing matters to attend to. Like not ending up a smudge of skin and blood on the bottom of Clyde’s cleats. He hung a left and headed straight for the nearest exit.

He could practically smell the school bus exhaust when…

“Hey buddy!" 

Kenny inwardly groaned. He was not stopping, not for…

“Hey, wait up just a second!” A mousy looking blonde panted into view.

_God damn it, Butters…_

“Geez,” Butter wheezed, his hands on his knees. “Where you off to in such a hurry, Kenny?”

Kenny paused just long enough to shoot a glare at Butters. “Home, actually, so if you don’t mind…”

“You’re going _home_?” Butters eyes practically bugged out of his skull. “But Speech and Debate is just about to start, Kenny. Did you forget we had practice today?”

No, Kenny had not forgotten about this week’s session of nerds with stopwatches. In fact, he had been planning on skipping practice long before Clyde Donovan decided today was a great day to make Kenny bleed.

As casually as he could, Kenny began slowly edging his way around Butters, back down the hallway. “I’m sorry, Butters, it’s just that I’ve been super busy at the shop this week, and I’m falling behind on my… physics homework.” Kenny held up the physics textbook he’d been clutching in front of him like a shield. “I’ll see you guys next week, okay?”

“No, it’s not okay,” Butters said, placing himself between Kenny and the exit, his arms literally outstretched like he was a fucking crossing guard. “Every week you miss practice, Kenny, and every week Coach asks me where you are. I always tell him you’ve got really important stuff going on, but I’m tired of sticking my neck out for you. We have a tournament in North Park next week. It’s time I put my foot down!” Butters said with a literal foot stomp for added emphasis.

Kenny rolled his eyes. He didn’t want to shove Butter out of the way, but he was running out of options, not to mention time— he was lucky Clyde and his gang hadn’t found him already. Another minute of this cat and mouse game and he was going to be caught, no way around it 

Butters folded his arms over his chest. “Why did you even join the team in the first place if you weren’t ever gonna to participate?” Butters asked, his eyes big and vulnerable looking. “Dougie says you’re only doing this to pad your college application.”

Kenny tried not to laugh at that mental picture— a McCormick, applying for college. He was applying for college the same way Nike clad, Audi driving Token was applying for SNAP: never in a million years.  

“Look, Butters, I’m sorry, but can we talk about this later?” Kenny said as he edged his way around the disgruntled blonde, glancing over his shoulder as he went. The coast was still clear. “I know you’re frustrated…”

“F-f-frustrated?” Butters sputtered, following Kenny as he went. “I’m not frustrated, I’m furious. I’m fuming. I’m…”

"...fucked," Kenny breathed.

“MCCORMICK!”

Clyde Donovan barreled around the corner, his head swiveling on that impossibly thick neck of his as he scanned the hallway. Storming right behind him were three of his part-time teammates, full-time lackeys: Token, Kevin, and Jason, all still in their gym clothes.

For a split second, Kenny wondered what the hell sort of eighteen-year-old had a neck as thick as a honey baked ham. Then he remembered the Honey-Baked Ham neck was after him. He ducked behind Butters as quick as he could, but it was too little, too late; Clyde had spotted him. For a second, time seemed to stop as Kenny and Clyde locked eyes.

Kenny took off down the nearest hall.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

_Freshman Year. Three Years Ago._

Karen spent that night sleeping in Kenny’s bed. And the next night. And the next. Kenny slept on the floor.

He tried everything he could think of to get Karen to talk— offers of ice cream, promises of excused chores, threats of canned spinach. Nothing worked. Karen refused to say anything about what had happened.

If only he’d gotten home sooner, maybe Karen would have been able to talk about it. Hell, maybe he could have stopped it, or at the very least, caught his bastard father in the act. But by the time Kenny arrived, Stuart McCormick was nowhere to be found.

Kenny would never forgive himself for not being there. He swore it’d be the last time he’d ever leave Karen alone with his father. Not that he’d meant to leave them alone together in the first place; his mother was supposed to be home— she’d been home when Kenny left. 

“She went to Skeeter’s,” was all Karen would say about it. It took Lori McCormick a full day to resurface, and when she finally did, she was sporting one hell of a shiner. Karen wouldn’t say anything about that either.

Stuart McCormick, on the other hand, was in no hurry to return home. Kenny thought about sleeping on the couch out in the living room so he would be right there when the bastard showed up, but Karen wouldn't let Kenny out of her sight, so he made up a bed on his bedroom floor. At first, he was worried the hard floor would keep him up all night, but he needn't have worried— between waiting for Stuart to stumble home drunk and listening to Karen cry in her sleep, Kenny didn’t manage to get a lick of sleep all night.  

That was Saturday. Sunday night rolled around and his dad was still MIA. Kenny lay on the floor, mentally tracing the cracks in his ceiling. He knew he couldn’t keep waiting up like this. He tried to fall asleep to the sound of Karen breathing beside him, but it was no use. He couldn’t even close his eyes, not when he knew his dad could burst through the front door in a drunken rage at any second.

With a frustrated sigh, Kenny grabbed his backpack and slipped out into the hall. Leaning against his bedroom door, he started on tomorrow’s math homework, something he hadn’t bothered doing since Kevin left.

He spent the rest of the week in a fog: dozing through his classes, working on his homework till dawn. By Wednesday, his teachers had stopped sending him to the principal’s office. By Thursday, they had given up on reprimanding him all together. The way they figured, there were only fifty minutes in a period and plenty of other kids who needed their attention, kids who actually wanted to learn. If Kenny wanted to throw away his education, no amount of detention or lectures were going to stop him. After all, not a single McCormick had graduated high school. Had anyone really believed Kenny would be the first?

 At least he was doing his homework again.

 It was Thursday night when Kenny's body finally gave out on him. He fell asleep against his bedroom door and woke up the next morning with a terrible crick in his neck. Sleeping on the concrete floor the next night didn’t help. When he woke up Saturday morning, he had just about had it.

“Karen, I can’t do this anymore. You have to start sleeping in your own bed.”

Karen look up from her bowl of cereal, her eyes wide and pleading. They looked just like they had one week ago when he found her shivering in her blankets.

Kenny ran his hands through his hair, his eyes rolling up to the ceiling. He was such a fucking pushover… 

“Fine, you can stay in my room…”  
  
Karen leapt up from the kitchen table and wrapped her arms around her brother’s waist. “Thank you, thank you, thank y…”

“If…” he cut her off with a sharp look, “we move your bed into my room. I’m serious about getting my bed back. I’ll go crazy if I have to spend one more night on the floor.”

Karen was fine with the new arrangement, excited even. “It will be like a sleepover!”

“A really fucking long sleepover.” Kenny groaned, positioning himself at the head of Karen’s bed. “Now get over here and help me.”

Karen, with her stick arms and chicken legs, was pretty much useless when it came to moving anything heavier than a pillow. Much to Kenny’s frustration, the urgency of the situation didn’t change that. After a few minutes of them straining against the ancient oak bed-frame, he ended up kicking her out of the room.

At first, Kenny was worried dragging the bed would tear up the wood floor, but after a few minutes of shoving and pulling, he realized he had been worried for nothing. There was no way he was getting the bed to budge on his own.

He thought about just pulling the mattress off the frame and throwing that on his floor for Karen, but he knew that would be a temporary fix at best. Karen would hate sleeping on the floor— it was cold on the floor, not to mention dusty. Besides, if he was serious about Karen moving in with him, he knew he would have to move her bed eventually. And better to do it now before his dad got back; who knew what kind of fight he would put up if Kenny tried pulling this shit when he was home.

So Kenny dragged himself over to the corded kitchen phone. Then he stared at it for a full minute.

Who the hell could he call for help?

Kyle would have been his first choice, even though he was just as skinny as Kenny and probably too weak to actually help. But Kyle wouldn’t ask dumb questions like Stan would, or run his mouth off to everyone at school like Cartman would. Not that Cartman would be caught dead at Kenny’s house anyway.

But Stan was with the basketball team at regionals and Kyle was still grounded after taking the family Lexus for a joyride. That was the extent of Kenny’s call list. He only had three people’s phone numbers memorized. He supposed he could walk to the library and try to Facebook message someone, but the library was clear on the other side of town— it would take forty-five minutes just to walk there. Besides, who the hell would make the trek out to his house on a Saturday to help him rearrange furniture? Still, Kenny figured it was worth a shot.

He was slipping on his coat when he had an idea. As soon as it crossed his mind, he knew it was a stupid, stupid idea, but if it worked, it would save him an hour and a half trek through the snow. He figured he might as well try it. 

“Karen, do you know Ruby Tucker’s phone number?”

Karen peeked her head over the couch, a particularly girly cartoon playing on the TV behind her. “Ruby doesn’t have a cell phone, but I know her house number.”

“That’s perfect,” Kenny called over his shoulder, already halfway back to the kitchen. “Just call it out for me.”

Karen read off the number from memory as Kenny dialed it in, trying not to second guess himself. He was fighting the urge to hang up before the phone even began to ring. 

_Stupid, stupid, stupid, this was the stupidest idea you’ve ever…_

“Hello, Tucker residence. This is Laura speaking, what do you want?”

“Um, hi. Is Craig there?”

“I’ll have to check. Who is this?”

Kenny panicked. Mrs. Tucker absolutely hated the McCormicks— she barely tolerated having Karen around. If Craig’s mom knew who it was calling…  

“It’s… uh, it’s Butters. Butters Stotch. I’m calling because I forgot… my uh, science homework. In class. And I was wondering if…”

“CRAIG! BUTTERS IS ON THE PHONE. PICK UP!”

Kenny could hear a muffled scuffling in the background.

“ _…right here mom, you don’t have to… yeah, whatever… I said alright…”_ There was a crackling sound, and then, “What do you want Butters? I’m in the middle of something.”

“Uh, it’s Kenny, actually. And I sort of need a favor.”


	5. Chapter 5

_Senior Year. Now._

“What the fuck made you think it was alright to screw around with my sister, McCormick?”

_Alright, so we’re diving right in._

Despite his best efforts, Kenny had ended up trapped in a dead-end alley between the cafeteria loading bay and the school dumpsters. Directly in front of him stood starting quarterback Clyde Donovan, flanked by center Token Black, linebacker Jason Hartman, and cornerback Kevin Stoley. Behind them stood football dropout Craig Tucker, hanging so far back, Kenny hadn’t even noticed him until he’d finally spun around to face his would be attackers. Craig leaned against the school, his arms folded across his chest, his head ever so casually inclined towards the unfolding drama.

Kenny stretched his hands out in surrender towards the quickly approaching wall of athleticism. “Look, Clyde, I don’t know what you think happened between me and Chloe…”

“What I think happened?” Clyde asked, his face turning a violent shade of maroon. “My thirteen-year-old sister has the clap, an empty box of Plan B, and a picture of you in her Snapchat story. What do I _think_ happened? I know exactly what happened.”

Kenny bit back a groan. "Look, Clyde, Chloe came to me. She was scared and desperate…”

“So you took advantage of her,” Kevin rolled his eyes. “Real classy McCormick.”

Kenny scowled at Kevin. “So I agreed to get her the morning-after pill. I swear on my life I didn’t touch Chloe.”

Clyde’s eyebrows knit together as he glared at Kenny like he was so much dog shit. “Pretty worthless thing to swear on, a dead kid’s life,” Clyde spat.

It was like some unspoken signal. Jason and Token lunged at Kenny, snatching at his backpack, his shirt, is hair— anything they could latch onto. Kenny tried to duck out of their grasp, but it was no use. Even though he had a few inches on Kevin, collectively, they had him beat by a good hundred pounds.

Still, he fought back, even as Token put him in a chicken-wing hold, his arms pulled uselessly behind his back, his whole torso exposed. Kevin swiped Kenny’s backpack off the ground and hurled it to Jason. All Kenny could do was thrash as Jason threw his entire school-life in the dumpster.

Clyde rolled up his sleeves as he squatted in front of Kenny, shoving his face right in front of the blond’s. “You look like a worm on a hook,” Clyde sneered, his face so close Kenny could taste the tuna sandwich he’d had for lunch. Clyde straightened up and cocked his fist.

The first blow hit Kenny square in the nose. The second glanced across his cheek, easily opening the gash on his face, the one Karen had so painstakingly covered this morning. Pinpricks of light exploded across his vision as the ground tilted and lurched beneath him. It’d been a long time since he’d taken a punch to the face. He was pretty sure he’d be on his ass right now if it weren’t for Token holding him up.

Clyde pulled back his fist, his knuckles dripping with blood. “You had enough, pervert?” he asked as he casually massaged his hand.

Kenny just stared at Clyde. Blood bubbled and popped under his bleeding nose as he tried to get a clean breath.

Clyde crouched down in front of Kenny, his hands on his knees. It took everything Kenny had to focus on the fat face looming before him.

“I said, have you had enough?”

Token yanked Kenny’s arm back hard. “Clyde asked you a question,” he hissed, his mouth right up against Kenny’s ear. He twisted his arm even further.

Kenny gritted his teeth until tears leaked from his eyes. “Yes,” he finally gasped, “yes, I’ve had enough.”

Clyde knotted his fist in Kenny’s shirt and yanked him towards him. “Then apologize. Apologize for ever thinking a white trash nobody like you could touch my baby sister.”

Kenny ran his tongue over his cracked lip as he tried to piece together a complete sentence. “I told you… I never touched Chloe…”

Clyde frowned. “Wrong answer.”

Kenny didn’t feel Clyde’s fist so much as he felt his jaw burst into flames. A second blow to his temple convinced him his skull had split open. There was nothing he could do to stop a pitiful sob from escaping his blood speckled lips.

When Clyde raised him arm a third time, Kenny couldn’t help but flinch.

“Hey, Clyde,” Kevin started, careful to look at anything but Kenny, “don’t you think that’s enough?”

Clyde didn’t lower his fist. “This all stops as soon as he says it does.”

“Sure, sure. But don’t you think he’s learned his lesson?” Kevin asked, glancing over his shoulder all the while.

Clyde snorted. “Apparently not,” he said. Then he hit Kenny square in the gut. “You ready to apologize shitbag?” 

Token’s grip kept Kenny from doubling over even as he spat blood on the pavement. “I didn’t touch Chloe,” he managed to choke out, chest heaving. 

Maybe if Chloe had been sixteen, he could have forced himself to lie about sleeping with her. Maybe if it was Cartman or Trent Boyett or anyone other than Clyde _fucking_ Donovan giving him hell right now, he could have fessed up. But Chloe just _had_ to be the thirteen-year-old sister of Clyde _fucking_ Donovan.

And yet, he’d known exactly who she was when she came to him for help: a middle schooler from a conservative family; a kid with a workaholic dad, an asshole brother, and a dead mom. Besides the Sexual Harassment Panda, she’d probably never had someone talk about sex with her before, let alone STDs and contraceptives. She was scared and alone and all she knew was Karen McCormick had an older brother with a reputation for giving out free condoms.

So yeah, Kenny had helped her sidestep an unwanted pregnancy. And now he was going to pay for it.

_I’m going to die here._

“I never touched her,” he repeated, glaring at Clyde through his rapidly swelling eye. Kenny could practically see the heat radiating off Clyde as he glared back, his grimace so tight it made his upper lip twitch.

“I don’t know man, maybe he didn’t do it. I mean, look at him.” Jason, who was still standing next to the dumpster, gestured towards Kenny’s mangled face.

Clyde whipped his head around. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying maybe he didn’t do it,” Jason murmured, much less confident than before. He too had started looking over his shoulder.

Kenny wondered how long they’d been at this. Someone was bound to notice a couple of deadbeats hanging around the school eventually. That’s what he prayed, at least.

“All I’m saying is if it were me, I would have said anything you wanted me to say five minutes ago.” Jason added a noncommittal shrug for good measure.

“Yeah? Well, you’re a fucking coward,” Clyde growled. “And you,” he rounded on Kevin, “Stop swiveling your neck like a fucking bobble head. Craig’s on lookout, so both of you quit your whining. We’re not done here until I say we’re done.” Clyde grabbed the corner of Kenny’s once white t-shirt and meticulously wiped his bloodied knuckles on it, like he was cleaning a high end Becker instead of his fat fingers.  Only when Kenny’s shirt was all but ruined did he turn back to the limp blond. “Now, where were we?”

“Kenny didn’t do it.”

Clyde froze. A confused look came over his face as he tried to figure out who had spoke. But Kenny already knew; he had recognized the bored, monotone drawl in an instant.

Clyde dropped his fist before turning to face Craig. “What, you’re on his side too?” he asked, his brows furrowed. “This pervert thinks he can touch my sister…"

Craig casually push himself off his spot on the wall. “Kenny didn't touch your sister,” he said as he turned towards Clyde. “Or anybody’s sister for that matter.”

“Thank you.”

Craig and Clyde both whipped towards Kenny. “Shut up,” they snapped in unison.

Clyde turned back to Craig, his face turning its signature shade of crimson. “First he _admits_ to giving her the goddamn abortion pills…”

Kenny had to bite his tongue to keep from correcting him. _They’re_ _Emergency fucking contraceptives. I didn’t give anyone a goddamn abortion._

“…and then he has the nerve to tell me he didn’t screw my sister. He’s fucking with me." 

Craig actually rolled his eyes. “Please tell me you’re not serious.” Craig’s frown deepened as he surveyed the blank faces surrounding him. “Oh, come on. The leather bracelets? The layered bangs?” More blank stares. “Jesus fucking… he’s wearing makeup for Christ’s sake.”

Clyde just shrugged.

Craig threw back his head, letting it hit the brick wall with an audible thump. “Kenny doesn’t want to fuck with you, Clyde. He wants to fuck you.”

It took a while for understanding sink in. Kenny thought it was a little like watching a water balloon pop in slow motion— the water desperately clinging to it’s shape for a few seconds before finally succumbing to the inevitability of gravity.

Jason was the first to break the silence that had fallen upon the group. “Wait, so, Kenny’s a fag?” Jason stammered.

Craig flipped him off.

“How long have you known?” Clyde demanded. Craig just shrugged, which only made Clyde throw his hands up in disgust. “What’s the point of keeping you around if you’re going to keep your gaydar to yourself?” Clyde threw his head back and sighed. Then he looked at Kenny. “Is it true?”

_Of all the ways to come out…_

Kenny thought carefully about how to phrase it. He didn’t want to lie. “Yeah, I’m queer,” he finally answered.

“Dude,” Kevin breathed, “you can’t say queer.” He looked around nervously, as if PC principal could jump out from behind dumpster at any moment.

Jason snorted. “He’s a homo. He can call himself whatever the fuck he wants.”

“Token, let him go.” Clyde said, ignoring the debate going on behind him. Token obliged, slipping his arms out from Kenny’s. As soon as he let go, Kenny felt himself plummeting towards the ground. At the last possible second, Clyde grabbed him by the back of his shirt and hulled Kenny back to his feet.

“If anyone asks, I hit you because you messed with my family. _Not_ because you’re a fa…” he caught himself mid-sentence, his eyes darting towards Craig. “…not because you’re gay. I’m not a homophobe,” he said, slamming Kenny into the wall as if that emphasized his point.  “You got that?”

Kenny nodded.

“Good,” Clyde said, taking a step back. “Now, leave my sister alone.” He turned towards his teammates and jerked his thumb towards the parking lot. One by one, they began filing out of the alley. And as Kenny watched them go, a strange, self-destructive urge came over him.

_Don’t say anything, don’t say anything, don’t say…_

“Hey, Clyde!” Kenny called.

Clyde came to a halt. He didn’t even bother turning around; he just stood there and waited.

_What the fuck are you doing?_

Kenny took a deep breath. “I’ve got a sister too, you know.”

Clyde spoke like he was trying to grind his teeth and speak at the same time. “Yeah, I know.”

“Everybody always talks about how they’d die for their family. How they’d take a bullet for their family. But I’d kill for Karen.” Kenny paused as he fought back a particularly vivid flashback. “Most people don’t know what that’s like.”

Slowly, Clyde pivoted. His face was flat. Unreadable.

Kenny reached into his front pocket and pulled out a handful of condoms. Plucking a hot pink one from the bunch, he tossed it to Clyde. “Just, do me a favor and talk to her, okay? So next time, I won’t have to.”

For a second, Clyde’s eyes glazed over and Kenny feared he’d overstepped. But as soon as it had come, the look was gone. “Sure McCormick.” Clyde said.

They held each other’s gaze for a moment, and for the briefest moment, Kenny had the uncanny sensation of looking into a mirror.

“It’s hard raising them all alone, isn’t it?”

A far away look crept back into Clyde’s eye, and just like that, Kenny knew he wasn’t there anymore. He was back in the forth grade, staring into a casket.

“Yeah, it sure fucking is,” Clyde said. And then he was gone.

The second Clyde disappeared, Kenny collapsed against the wall.


	6. Chapter 6

_Freshman Year. Three Years Ago._

“How did you get this number?”

The conversation was actually going better than Kenny thought it would. For one thing, Craig had yet to hang up on him. And for another thing, Craig had yet to cuss him out. Whether or not he’d flipped him off was anybody’s guess.

“Karen gave it to me.”

“Oh,” was all Craig said.

In spite of Mrs. Tuckers’ best efforts, Karen and Ruby Tucker were best friends and had been since Kindergarten. Even though their friendship had never managed to rub off on their older brothers, it meant that Craig and Kenny had always been uneasy acquaintances at worst, neutral associates at best. Which only made what Kenny had to do next all the harder.

Kenny cover the receiver before taking a deep breath. “Craig, I need a favor.”  
  
“Yeah, I got that. I’m just trying to figure out why you think I would help you.”

“It’s not a favor for me,” Kenny continued lamely. “It’s for Karen. I need your help.”

The line crackled with static as Craig let out a deep sigh. “With what, McCormick?”

“I need to rearrange Karen’s furniture.” Kenny closed his eyes and waited for Craig to cuss him out.

There was a beat. “Her furniture?” Craig finally echoed.

“Yeah, her furniture,” Kenny repeated. He twisted the cord of the phone around his wrist and waited.

Finally, Craig spoke. “What the hell is wrong with all of you?”

Kenny’s eyes flew open. “Do you think I’d be calling you if this wasn’t serious?” He began pacing the kitchen floor, the phone cord trailing behind him. “I need to move her bed, and I need to do it today.”  
  
“Don’t you have a whole gang of idiots you could bother with this shit?” Craig asked. “I’ve got plans with Clyde and the rest of the team tonight, so I don’t have time…”

“Look Craig,”—Kenny clenched the phone cord— “if there was someone else, _anyone_ else I could ask, I would. But there isn’t.”

Craig was silent.

Kenny let out an exasperated sigh. “Do you care about Ruby?”

“What? That’s not…”

“I said, do you care about your sister, Craig.”

Craig let out that static-filled gust again. “Sure.”

“And you’d do anything for her?” Kenny pressed.

“Sure,” Craig droned.

Kenny could practically hear the eye roll in the other boy’s voice, but it was enough. “Then do this for Ruby. Help me help Karen for Ruby.”

“That is the most fucked up, convoluted…”

More silence. For a second, Kenny worried Craig had hung up on him.

“Fine. I’ll be over in fifteen. And McCormick?”

Kenny held his breath.

“This bed better be made out of fucking balsa wood.”

 

* * *

 It was a good hour later when Craig finally showed up, but Kenny could care less— he was ecstatic Craig had showed up at all. But there he was, his white ford pulling into the McCormick’s gravel driveway. Kenny made sure he opened the door before Craig had a chance to try and ring the busted doorbell. The door opened wide, Craig stomped in without so much as a hello.

“You can leave your shoes on,” Kenny told Craig as he closed the door behind them.

“Believe me, I was going to.” Craig stood on the doormat, stomping the ever-present south park snow off his winter boots. 

Kenny stared at Craig for a moment. It had been years since he’d had anyone over and he forgot what came next. Should he take Craig’s coat or offer him something to drink? He figured he could scrounge up at least one clean cup. Probably.

“Are you thirsty?” he asked.

“I’d rather just get this over with, if that’s alright with you,” Craig deadpanned.

Kenny shrugged before he lead the way to Karen’s room. As soon as Craig rounded the corner, his eyes went wide.

“Goddamn it, Kenny, you said we were moving a bed, not a fucking continent.”

“If you’re too weak, I could always call Clyde over. He’s probably ripped by now, what with carrying your dead-weight ass all last season.”

Craig flipped him off, but the taunt did the trick. Between the two of them, they managed to get the bed off the floor.

“Where’s this thing going?” Craig asked.

“The room at the end of the hall,” Kenny answered.

They ended up having to turn the bed on it’s side to get it through door and down the hall. Craig raised an eyebrow when he saw Kenny’s clothes scattered all over the floor of the new room, but he didn’t say anything. Together they managed to wrangle Karen’s bed into the far corner of the room; the one furthest from the door.

As soon at they were finished, Karen, who’d been watching shyly from the hall, offered Craig a soda. Kenny couldn’t help but feel a little miffed when Craig took it. The two of them watched from hallway as Kenny dragged his much lighter twin bed in front of the door until it was completely barricaded. Now anyone wanting to get to Karen would have to climb over Kenny to get there.

If Craig found their new sleeping arrangement weird, he didn’t say anything. He just sipped his Coke in silence, looking for all the world bored.

In retrospect, Kenny realized Craig may have been the prefect person for this job, piss poor attitude aside. Kyle might pretend to not freak out about Kenny’s home life, but Craig honest to God couldn’t care less. Not to mention the fact that with Craig’s help, the two of them had managed to lift Karen’s bed like it was nothing.

Craig tossed his empty into Kenny’s trash can. “Are we done here?”

Kenny surveyed the room. “Yeah,” he finally answered. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Don’t mention it,” Craig said, grabbing his coat off the hallway floor. Then he spun back around to face Kenny, his brow furrowed. “I mean it. You don’t mention it and I won’t mention it,” he said as he climbed over Kenny’s bed and disappeared down the hall.

As soon as Kenny heard the front door slam, he fished Craig’s can out of the trash. For a second, he let himself wonder what it would have been like growing up in a house where you didn’t have to sell your trash.

 

* * *

Kenny was throwing the last pillow onto Karen’s bed when he heard the back door slam.

Karen looked up from arranging her stuffed animals, her eyes a terrified question mark.

“Just wait here,” Kenny said, trying for all the world to sound braver that he felt. “I’ll see who it is.” His feet moved like lead as he walked to the kitchen; his stomach lurched like there was a bowling ball rolling around in it. He turned the corner to find his dad throwing his over coat over a warped kitchen chair.

Every nerve in his body screamed for him to run in the opposite direction, but Kenny forced his feet to carry him into the kitchen. He squared his shoulders best he could and waited for his dad to say something. 

But Stuart didn’t so much as glance at Kenny, not even as he elbowed past him on his way to the fridge. Kenny watched as his dad yanked open the fridge in silence, every snarl and pockmark on his father’s skin suddenly illuminated by the harsh light. Kenny knew Stuart would ignore him all night if he let him. Normally, that would have suited Kenny just fine, but tonight, Kenny had questions that needed answers.

“Where have you been?” Kenny demanded, his arms folded over his chest.

It was as if Kenny hadn’t spoken at all. Stuart kept rummaging around in the fridge, his head buried in the fog of the ice box.

“You’ve been gone for almost two weeks,” Kenny tried again, his voice a little louder this time. “I want to know where you’ve been.”

Slowly, Stuart stood up, a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon in his hand. Cracking the can open, he took one step, then another towards Kenny. By the third step, Kenny was nose deep in his dad’s greasy wife beater. Stuart glared down at his son, his chest puffed out almost as far as his beer gut. “You’ll watch your tone with me, boy,” he drawled, his voice low and dangerous.

Standing there, breathing in the scent of stale beer and frost, there was nothing Kenny wanted more than to tuck tail and run back to his room. Instead, he took a deep breath and drew himself to full height. Even with his back as straight as it would go, he still barely cleared Stuart’s chin.

“No one’s seen you in days. You haven’t answered any of mom’s calls…”

“I don’t owe you or that nagging bitch anything,” he spat. Then he shoved through Kenny and stormed out of the kitchen.

Kenny waited for the sound of the living room TV before he closed the fridge and crept back to his room.

Karen was curled up on top of her bed, her knees pulled to her chest. “Is it him?” Karen asked, “Is it dad?”

For a split second, a jolt of red streaked through Kenny’s vision. 

_Don’t call him that. He’s not…_

Kenny let the thought trail off. Of course he was her father. Being a monster didn’t somehow magically preclude them from being related.

“Yeah, dad’s home,” he finally sighed.

Karen pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. “Is he mad?” she asked, her eyes big and glassy.

The same way they were the night…

“No, he’s not mad.”

_Not yet. But he’s nursing a Pabst Blue Ribbon, so give him twenty minutes._

“He’s watching TV,” Kenny said, running his fingers through his entirely too long blond hair. He made of mental note to give himself a haircut once life finally calmed the fuck down again. “Why don’t you just stay in here for the rest of the night, okay? Finish up your homework and go to bed.”

“I can’t,” Karen said, her eyes darting nervously towards the bedroom door. “I left my backpack in the living room.”

Kenny closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose. “Do you have anything due tomorrow?”

“Yeah, an essay and a couple of math questions. Oh, and a…”

Kenny reached for the doorknob. “It’s fine, I’ll get it. Just…” he looked meaningfully at Karen, “stay here. No matter what happens, for the love of God, just stay here. Okay?”

Karen bit her lip but nodded. “Okay.”

It was a fine line to walk— keeping absolutely silent while not looking like you were trying to keep absolutely silent. Kenny scanned the living room, trying to spot Karen’s backpack before…

“What are you doing, boy?”

Kenny tried and failed not to finch at the sound of his father’s voice. “Karen left her backpack out here. I’m just grabbing it for her.” He forced himself to look at his father, who was hunched over his busted out lazy boy like a vulture, his eyes thin, bloodshot slits.

“Karen’s home?” Stuart asked, leaning forward a little as he spoke.

“Yeah…” Kenny began, hesitantly.

With a grunt, Stuart pulled himself out of his plush hovel and onto his feet. “I’ve been gone for two weeks and she can’t even come out to say hi to her old man?”

Kenny felt his hands clench, his vision bleeding crimson again. It was like the asshole had no fucking clue— the gravity of what he’d done. It was at that exact moment he spotted Karen’s faded teal backpack.

_Thank the Elder Gods._

Before Stuart could say another word, Kenny ducked in front of the TV and scooped up Karen’s backpack, darting down the hallway with it.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Stuart roared as he followed Kenny into the hall. 

“I told you, I’m giving Karen her backpack.”

“Karen’s room is that way.” Stuart jerked his thumb down the hallway in the opposite direction. 

Kenny put his hand on his doorknob, silently praying his dad would turn his ass around and go finish his goddamn Simpsons episode. “She’s studying with me tonight.”

“Well then, you won’t mind if I stop in and say hi,” Stuart drawled as he began stalking down the hallway.

Kenny turned on his heel and threw his arms against the wall, effectively barricading himself in front of his door.

Stuart chuckled. “What’s this?”

Kenny didn’t say anything. He simply held his father’s gaze.

His father’s sickly smile turned into a sneer. “If you think you’re going to stop me from seeing my own daughter, you’ve got another thing coming, boy.” Stuart took a step forward, ramming his shoulder into his son like they were playing a game of red rover.

Kenny planted his feet and braced his arms against the peeling wallpaper, but it was no use— Stuart mowed through him like he was so much gravel in front of a bulldozer. Kenny’s heels hit his bedroom door. “You don’t get to see her anymore…” Kenny growled from between clenched teeth. “Not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever.” 

Kenny saw the blow telecast in his father’s eyes a second before the back of Stuart’s hand smashed into his face. Kenny flew sideways, his temple slamming into the door jam. Kenny crumpled to the ground as Stuart reached for the doorknob. Pulling it open, he easily stepped over Kenny and into his bedroom. 

Hands shaking, Kenny pushed himself off the floor and onto his feet. When he finally managed to right himself, he found his father staring into the bedroom, unmoving.

The bedroom window was open wide, the curtain fluttering in the night breeze.

Karen was nowhere to be seen.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, an update! Thank you so much for waiting patiently and sticking with me. It's an extra long chapter too, I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> I can't say when the next chapter will be out. Part of the reason this one took so long is my new internship has me working crazy hours seven days a week, but I'm still writing. A lot of part two of this series is already done, so expect me to be uploading a couple more chapters before the new year.
> 
> Thanks for all the lovely feedback everyone! As always, your kudos and comments are sooooo appreciated. I love hearing what you all think of the story, and the encouragement is what keeps me going. Happy reading <3

_Senior Year. Now._  

_Fuck, fuck, fuck me…_ Kenny huffed under his breath. He didn’t need a watch to know he was at least half an hour late to his shift. Walt was going to kill him. He might even fire him.

Kenny booked it down the street, pulling his grimy gym shirt over his head as he ran. It was wrinkled and sweat stained, but at least it wasn’t bloody. Panting, he skidded to a halt in front of Beyler’s Deli. Despite the fact he was late, Kenny took a second to study his reflection in the storefront. His nose had pretty much stopped bleeding thanks to the ball of toilet paper he’d shoved up it, and he’d managed to wipe all the blood off his face. Even so, it was pretty obvious he’d been in a fight. Kenny tried rearranging his bangs, but it was no use— there was no hiding the purple and blue bruise blooming around his eye.

The sound of the shopkeeper’s bell told Kenny time was up. He ducked around the corner, barely avoiding the exiting shopper.

An old woman waved over her shoulder. “Have a good day, Walter,” she called as she climbed down the store steps, a red headscarf flapping in the crisp breeze behind her. The paper grocery bag she carried was full to the brim. Kenny wondered if she would collapse under its weight.

Just as the woman was taking the last stair, her foot twisted in a crack on the sidewalk. The grocery bag slipped from her hands as she toppled head-first towards the pavement.

Without even thinking, Kenny grabbed the woman by the elbows, stumbling backwards as she fell into him. Kenny winced as the woman’s nose smashed against his sternum and she let out a pained _ommph._ Still, falling into his chest had to better than hitting the pavement.

Cradling the strange woman was nothing short of awkward, but Kenny didn’t let go until he was sure she had both feet under her. As soon as she was righted, Kenny was on his knees, gathering the scattered groceries.

“Young man,” the woman said, her voice only slightly less shaky than her trembling legs, “You just saved me from a nasty spill.”

Kenny stood, careful to keep his head ducked. The last thing he needed was this woman complaining to Walt about some punk with a black eye loitering around the store.

 “It’s no big deal,” he said. As he placed the final bruised apple back into the bag, he couldn’t help but notice the woman was still trembling. The bag of groceries quivered like a dead leaf between her arms.

Carrying groceries wasn’t part of Kenny’s job description, but neither was catching falling old ladies. He glanced at the rusting clock above the Deli door and sighed. What difference would a few more minutes make?

“Let me,” Kenny mumbled, not bothering to wait for a response as he grabbed the bag of groceries from the woman. He hoisted the bag in front of his face before heading off towards the parking lot. Even with his chin tucked and his vision obscured by groceries, following the woman back to her car wasn’t difficult. All he had to do was followed the sound of the woman’s thankful babbling.

“…and they said chivalry was dead. I swear, I’ve never met a young man as well-mannered and polite. What a gentleman you are, helping a stranger. Your parents must be so proud..."

Kenny ignored her endless stream of chatter. “Where should I put them?” he asked, praying he wouldn’t have to climb into the sagging maroon station wagon before him. As if he didn’t already regret getting involved.

_First Clyde’s sister, then the JV squad, and now babushka lady. Just can’t mind your own damn business, can you?_

Kenny wondered, not for the first time that day, what the hell was wrong with him.

“The trunk’s fine,” the woman said as it swung open with a dull click. Kenny set the groceries between a folded lawn chair and some bags of kitty litter.

“I’m just so grateful for your help, darling. Let me show you my appreciation…”

Kenny looked up, mortified to find the woman holding out a handful of crumpled bills. His mouth went dry. “I can’t…”

The woman frowned, noticing his battered face for the first time. A second wave of shame washed over Kenny as the woman’s face twisted in concerned pity.

Kenny felt his cheeks burn. “Keep your money,” he muttered under his breath, his hands thrust deep into his pockets as he walked back towards the deli.

* * *

 

Kenny slunk past the front door, around to the loading dock in the back. Normally, he’d enter through the front and say hi to Walt before clocking in, but what was the point of having a back entrance if you never used it? 

Quietly as he could, Kenny shut the door behind him. He turned to grab his punch card from the rack.

“Just when I was starting to think you’d finally quit.”

Kenny looked up from the time cards to find Dennis James Foster— grandson to Walter Beyler and reluctant co-heir to the delicatessen family fortune.

“Hello, Dennis.” 

Dennis frowned. “I told you to stop calling me that.”

Kenny shrugged innocently as he pulled his forest green apron off its hook. “Why? That’s your name isn’t it?” he asked as he tied the apron round his waist.

It had started innocently enough, Kenny calling him Dennis. After all, Walt had been telling Kenny about his grandson long before the two had ever actually met, and Walt had always called him Dennis. Dennis went to some private school in North Park, so Kenny had never met him. But from the way Walt talked about him, Kenny had always assumed Dennis was an okay guy. That was until he started working at the shop four months ago. If he weren’t such an aspiring asshole, Kenny would have called him DJ from day one, no problem. But, things being what they were, Kenny never could bring himself to let such a cheap shot go by.

“Get out of my way, Dennis,” Kenny growled. The guy had planted himself firmly in front of the time clock, arms folded in front of his chest like he was some off-brand bouncer instead of an apron clad clerk.

With more gusto than necessary, Dennis rolled up his sleeve to glance at his apple watch. “You’re already fifty-seven minutes late, loser. Why don’t you grab a seat and we can make it an even sixty? I’m pretty sure being an hour tardy is grounds for dismissal.”

Kenny tried to elbow Dennis out of the way, but the guy just laughed. They might have been roughly the same height, but Dennis was North Park Academy’s starting winger. He spent his weekends training on the ice and on his back pumping iron. Kenny spent his weekends eating bread sandwiches and on his back pumping… something else.

“Come on, McCormick. Is that the best you got?” Dennis gave him a hard shove. “I thought you needed this job,” he goaded, a cruel smirk on his face.

Kenny didn’t know why, but ever since Dennis had come on back in November, he’d been trying to start something with Kenny. Something physical. Kenny couldn’t tell whether Dennis had something against him personally, or if six days a week slamming teammates into the boards wasn’t enough for him, but the guy was always looking for an excuse to land a hit. Either way, Kenny wanted nothing to do with the wanna-be goon.

“I know you like to fight,” Dennis laughed, “it’s written all over your pretty-boy face.” He leaned into Kenny until their faces were barely a hair’s breadth apart. Kenny held his breath as Dennis gently swiped his thumb along the blond’s jaw, tracing the ugly bruise blooming across Kenny’s chin. When Kenny didn’t move, Dennis let out a cold, dark chuckle.

Kenny weighed his options. If he tried to get around Dennis, Dennis was sure to take that as the excuse he needed to throw the first punch. But Dennis was right— if Kenny didn’t clock in before four, he could get fired. Of course, the other option was clocking Dennis square in the nose, but that move was more likely to get him fired than anything else. 

Thankfully, he was spared the choice.

“Dennis, where’s that dolly?” Walt called from the front of the shop.

Dennis groaned, his eyes narrowing as he glared at the storeroom doors. “Just a minute gramps, I’m in the middle of…”

“Dennis,” Walt bellowed, “Now!”

With one final scowl at Kenny, Dennis wrenched the dolly off the wall and headed onto the store floor.

Kenny had his card prepped and punched before the storeroom doors had even stopped swinging. He yanked the card free from the clock and held it up to the bare bulb of the backroom. 3:59 it read, the wet ink shiny in the dim light. Careful not to smudge it, Kenny slipped his punch card back into the rack on the wall.

Even though he knew he would have to explain himself to Walt eventually, Kenny could see no reason not to delay the inevitable. He headed back towards the loading dock and picked up where he had left off the day before.

A solid four hours passed before Kenny even looked up from his work. He’d managed to finish stocking the whole back-half of the store in a third of the time it would have normally taken him. Every row from the dairy isle on back looked immaculate. No can was unstacked, no box overturned. Never in his two years of working at the Deli had Kenny worked so hard.

Sure, part of his fervor could be chalked up to the fact that Kenny was terrified of loosing this job. This was the best job he’d ever had (and yes, just about anything beat working in a warehouse). But for as much as he complained about having to work after school every day, Kenny really did enjoy working for Walt. Most days, coming into the Deli was the only thing he had to look forward to. 

Of course, things had been less than rosy since Dennis had reclaimed his cashier birthright, but even he couldn’t spoil the ten-dollar-an-hour paycheck Kenny took home at the end of the week. Not to mention the work was easy. Most days, all he did was stock shelves, bag groceries, and sweep. Compared to his weekend gig, working for Walt was a cakewalk.

But, if he was being honest with himself, Kenny knew it wasn’t the fear of loosing his job that kept his nose to the grindstone. The look on Walt’s face when Kenny tried to explain why he’d been late; now _that_ was what Kenny feared.

As dumb as it was, Kenny couldn’t stand disappointing Walt.

* * *

 

June, one year ago.

Walt was putting on a give-away for all the kids in town: any kid who brought him a report card with an A on it got a free ice-cream bar. Of course Karen qualified, so Kenny brought her by the store after school to pick something out.

“Kenny, where’s your report card?” Walt asked.

Kenny laughed. “I promise, Mr. Beyler, you do not want to see my report card.”

“Come on now Kenny. Good old South Park High still offers shop, don’t they? It can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, believe me,” Karen said between mouthfuls of a chocolate drumstick, “It’s that bad.”

Kenny just shook his head as he tucked Karen’s report card back into his backpack. 

It wasn’t until after Karen left that Walt pulled him aside.

“Kenny, if working at the store is interfering with your grades…”

“No, of course not, Mr. Beyler. I’m doing fine. I’m just, you know…” Kenny felt a twinge of heat creep up his cheeks as he finished, “Not the straight A type.”

Walt frowned at that. “Don’t tell me you’re not smart, kid. If you wanted to, you could ace your classes same as anybody else.”

Kenny shrugged. “I guess I don’t want to, then.” He hated the way the words sounded coming out of his mouth, like he was some punk with an attitude. He hated the way saying them made him feel like a jerk. But Walt was wrong this time. Kenny couldn’t get A’s, no matter how hard he worked. There just weren’t enough hours in the day, and not enough fucks left in his cookie jar. Kenny couldn’t afford to prioritize some stupid letters on a piece of paper, not if he and Karen wanted to eat every night. Besides, he was going to graduate. That was good enough for everyone else, it would have to be good enough for Walt.

Walt lowered his voice. “Did you fail any classes, Ken?” he asked, the caterpillars that mascaraed for eyebrows on his forehead furrowed.

Kenny almost lied. The fib was half-formed on his tongue before he choked it back. “Yeah, two electives,” he finally said, a defeated sigh edging its way into his words. “But I’m still on course to graduate,” he added.

The look Walter gave him— no one had ever looked at him like that before. It was like Kenny had _personally_ let him down. Kenny had made people angry before. He’d made people mad enough to want to kill him. But he had never, _ever_ disappointed anyone. No one’s expectations were ever high enough to be disappointed by a McCormick.

Kenny wasn’t proud of his grades, but he’d never felt ashamed of them before. The feeling burned through him like a flame through an empty cigarette wrapper.

_I’m going to graduate, old man. Isn’t that enough? Why can’t that be enough?_

His eyes stung as he turned away from Walt’s disappointed gaze.

_Why can’t I be enough?_

* * *

 

The sound of raised voices at the front of the shop pulled Kenny out of the memory. He managed to catch the end of whatever Walt was saying. 

“…think you’re over reacting.”

“Over reacting? You’ve lost two-hundred dollars in the last month, and you think I’m over reacting?”

Kenny knew he should mind his own business and stay out of sight. His shift ended in ten minutes— if he played this right, he just might be able to sneak out the back door and head home before Walt even saw his black eye. That would be the smart thing to do.

Then again, no one had ever accused Kenny McCormick of being smart.

Careful not to draw attention to himself, Kenny crept towards the front of the store. He peered around the ancient Keebler cookie display at the end of the snack isle. Pacing in front of the check-out counter was Dennis’ older sister, Alison. Her straight, blonde hair whipped behind her as she darted back and forth in front of a cross-looking Walt.

Unlike Dennis, Alison had attended South Park High. She and Kevin had been in the same grade. Kenny remembered because they’d had choir together— the two of them had sung a duet at the eighth grade farewell. It was the only time he ever remembered his mother getting excited for a school event. She had borrowed the Marsh’s camcorder just so she could record Kevin in his hand-me-down dress shirt, singing onstage beside the pretty girl-next-door.

Kenny knew better than to pretend Kevin had had any friends at school. But when he’d finally run away, Alison had been the one to empty out his locker and bring his stuff home. That had to count for something.

Walt glared at Alison from across the yellowing, linoleum counter. “I’m gonna tell you the same thing I told your parents,” he said, his voice measured. “This is my store. It has been for 47 years now, and I’m gonna run it the way I see fit. 

This was an old argument, one that Kenny had heard once or twice since he started working at the Deli. Walt had a bit of a shoplifting problem, much to Kenny’s surprise. Kenny couldn’t imagine what sort of middle-schooler would have the balls to steal from Walt; Kenny certainly hadn’t. But the kids usually took candy and gum, stuff that didn’t amount to much in the long run, so Walt never got the cops involved. The fact that Walt was content to let the thefts slide had always been a point of contention between Walt and his son’s family. But normally, they’d argue about it over the phone, after closing time. And normally, they were arguing about ten dollars worth of merchandise. Not two-hundred. 

“When I want your input on how to run my store, I’ll ask for it, but until then...”

“Until then you’re just going to let some hoodlum walk off with your money?” Alison cut him off. “I didn’t drive all the way home from college just to have you brush me off, grandpa. This is serious!” she cried, her hands preforming an exasperated ballet above her head.

As Alison continued to shout, Kenny began to zone-out.  Whatever was going on seemed serious. He knew he should be paying attention. But seeing Alison pacing around the store in her preppy boat shoes took Kenny was right back to that rainy day— Alison standing awkward and confused in his gravel driveway, a cardboard box with _Kevin McCormick_ scrawled across the front in her arms. Whenever he saw Alison, he couldn’t help but think of Kevin; how old he would be now, how tall he might be. How if Kevin had gone to CU Denver, he’d be finishing his Junior year just like Alison.

“…time to face the facts. He’s here almost everyday. Most of the time he’s unsupervised and unattended. You can’t deny he’s had plenty of opportunities to grab a couple twenties when no one was watching…”

Kenny froze. Alison wasn’t talking about shoplifting; she was talking about bona fide theft. And from the sounds of it, Kenny was suspect numero uno.

Walt was frowning now. When he finally answered Alison, his voice was so low, Kenny could barely hear him. “Alison, let’s not jump to conclusions.”

Alison just rolled her eyes. “So I guess Mrs. Galantino’s been cleaning out the cash register.” She flipped her perfectly smooth hair over her shoulder. “It’s simple process of elimination Grandpa. You only have two employees.”

That wasn’t strictly true. Every one of Walt’s kids and grandkids worked in the shop at one point or another. But Kenny knew what Alison was getting at. There were really only two people who could have taken the money: him, or Pamela Galantino, the fifty-six-year-old spinster who’d been cashiering for Walt since 1982. Of course, Kenny hadn’t taken the money. He’d never even considered stealing before, and definitely not from Walt. But there was no way Pamela had taken that money, either.

Kenny felt himself begin to hyperventilate.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m not just getting fired today…_

What did it matter if he’d taken the money or not? He had the means, the motive, the background. As stupid as it was, Kenny had been caught shoplifting before. And doing hard time? Well, that just ran in the family, now didn’t it?

_…I’m going to jail._

Kenny felt his legs give out from under him. For all anyone at the Park County Police Force cared, he was as good as guilty.

“Kenny isn’t a cashier Alison. He doesn’t have a key to the drawer. Never has.”

Alison finally stopped pacing. She planted her feet in front of the counter, her hands on her narrow hips. “I’ve know the McCormicks for years, grandpa. I know you like to think the best of everyone, but if you really think the little matter of a key could have stopped a desperate delinquent, you’re deceiving yourself. A kid like Kenny, the things he’s capable of…”

“Now listen here,” Walt yelled, his voice booming across the store. “I’ve been around the block a few times, young lady, and I’ve known my fair share of _kids like Kenny_.” Walt’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “So don’t you tell me what kids like Kenny are capable of.”

For the first time since Kenny had started eavesdropping, Alison fell silent. Kenny strained to hear what was being said, wondering if maybe they were whispering now. He’d stopped watching a while ago, his blurry eyes fixed on the wall of chips in front of him.

Suddenly, the front door slammed, the storefront windows vibrating with the force. Alison must have stormed off, Kenny realized. The store seemed unnaturally silent now that the fighting was over. The sound of Kenny’s heart pounding was deafening in his own ears.

After a few minutes of deep breathing, Kenny felt like he was back in control of his own body. Quietly as he could, he peeled himself off the polished linoleum floor. A glance at the store clock told him his shift had ended five minutes ago.

_Thank god._

There was nothing Kenny wanted more than to go home, crawl into his bed, and forget about this day entirely…

“Kenny?”

_Oh shit._

Kenny froze. He was 99% sure Walt hadn’t seen him come into the store. Maybe if he stood perfectly still…

“I know you’re there. Stop lurking behind the cookie tree.”

_Oh shit._

Kenny stepped out of the snack isle, his thumbs thrust through his belt loops, his eyes fixed on his torn up sneakers.

“Kenny?”

Kenny bit the inside of his cheek, but raised his head. He looked Walt square in the eyes. He did his best to keep his face open, his eyes neutral.

Walt studied Kenny, his eyes lingering on the blond’s split lip and bruised face just like Kenny knew they would. Then he looked down at Kenny’s hands. Walt took in every detail— Kenny’s too casual posture. His unbruised knuckles. The red tinge of his eyes.

“You were late today,” Walt said, his usual frown firmly in place.

Kenny stayed quiet. He just braced himself for the lecture he knew he had coming.

But Walt didn’t say anything. Instead, he sighed as he turned his back to Kenny and grabbed a pack of smokes off the wall behind the register. “How much of that did you hear?” he asked.

Kenny blinked in surprise. He’d been so sure Walt would… would what? Scold him like a disappointed teacher? Walt was his boss. Not his coach, not his grandfather, and certainly not his friend.

Kenny squared his shoulders. “Enough,” he finally said with a shrug.

Walt nodded. “Alright,” he said. He slipped the pack in his pocket, then grabbed an inventory sheet from under the register. Kenny waited for Walt to say something else. But Walt just uncapped a pen and began filling out the nightly paper work.

For reasons he couldn’t begin to explain, Kenny felt himself growing irritated. “Well?” he demanded.

Slowly, Walt looked up from his checklist. “Well what?”

“The store’s been robbed, and I’m the only suspect.”

“There’s a lot of suspects, Kenny, and you’re not even on the list.”

“Oh yeah?” Kenny asked, a cold, humorless laugh worming its way out of his chest. “And why’s that?”

Walt set his checklist down. Then he looked Kenny straight in the eye. “Because you’re no thief,” he said, his gaze firm, his watery blue eyes unyielding.

Kenny felt his heart skip a beat in his chest. He looked up, as if his composure was hiding under the ceiling tiles. When he looked back down, Walt was still staring at him. For some reason, it made Kenny mad.

“And what about this, huh?” Kenny asked as he thrust out his jaw. “Aren’t you going to yell at me for fighting?”

Walt shook his head. “Doesn’t look like you were in a fight to me.”

Kenny couldn’t help but scoff at that. “I’ve got a fucking black eye old man…”

“And two spotless fists,” Walt snapped, scowling at Kenny. “Not a split knuckle between ‘em.”

Kenny looked down at his hands, the skin there clean and unbroken.  

“Like I said, doesn’t look like a fight to me. Looks like somebody jumped you.” Walt shrugged before picking up his clipboard again. “Didn’t think something like that was any of my business. Unless you want to talk about it.”

Kenny just stared at Walt. As a rule, Kenny was a quiet guy, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been speechless.

Walt glanced at his watch. “Thought your shift ended at nine,” he said, a familiar frown on his face. “Don't think I’m paying you overtime to gape at my deductive reasoning skills.”

Kenny rolled his eyes before starting off for the storeroom.

“Oh, and Kenny?” Walt called after him. “Thanks for helping Mrs. Miller with her groceries.”

Kenny froze, his hand against the back room door. _Babushka lady._ Walt had seen…

“Don’t think for a second that makes up for being late,” Walt said. He’d followed Kenny down the snack isle, the inventory list in his hand. “I’m docking your pay. One hour. And don’t call me old man.” Walt murmured, an unlit cigarette already between his lips. “Makes you sound like a punk.”

Kenny smirked as he gave Walt a two-fingered salute. “Yes, Sir.”

Walt shook his head. “You’re a lot of things Kenny McCormick, but a boy scout ain’t one of them.”

Kenny nodded before pushing his way through the storeroom doors.

_Damn straight._


End file.
